


Caza-Death Dealer

by bracket



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Old World Blues DLC, lobotomite character(s) - Freeform, when cazadors attack!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bracket/pseuds/bracket
Summary: Lobotomite hierarchy was a loose order of business, but generally favored those who survived by claiming better gear from those who fell. Tense standoffs often ended in violence when a reckless newcomer tried to get ahead of the pecking order. Once a recently discharged patient settled down, a new group would form around them and they'd fall into routine.
Kudos: 2





	Caza-Death Dealer

**Author's Note:**

> The courier was a lobotimite before their brain caught up to them. Must've been rough.

A trio of lobotomites patrolled a cursory route across the sun-baked dirt of the crater. As much as three dangerous creatures could be said to be working together, that is. Lobotomite hierarchy was a loose order of business, but generally favored those who survived by claiming better gear from those who fell. Tense standoffs often ended in violence when a reckless newcomer tried to get ahead of the pecking order. Once a recently discharged patient settled down, a new group would form around them and they'd fall into routine.

Two of the patrol wore jumpsuits and carried guns, while the one with fresh surgical scars and a mere gown was relegated to a simple hatchet. They had the dense musculature of a sturdy desert wanderer, but the bleary way they looked around meant they were forced to follow the lead of others more experienced for the time being.

The one on point with a hunting rifle turned the march on a meandering path through a muddy runoff gully near the base of the monolithic dome that lay at the center of their world. It had not spoken today, thus the semi-intelligent creatures of the crater tended to default to the last set of instructions they had been given. Those who had first heard the call to "wash the walking eye" were still wandering around out there, looking for the thing so they could complete the task. Something clicked rapidly as the trio passed through the radioactive muck, but none of the lobotomites paid the noise any mind.

As they headed back up the slope, the one with fresh scars froze and tilted their head, listening intently. The other two passed under one of the large green pipes that stood out like veins around the landscape, unaware. A large shadow loomed above them, clattering softly along the metal. The lobotomite made a hoarse grunt, not knowing how to form words, but it was enough to alert their fellows.

The shadow pounced.

Massive orange wings blurred into action as the cazador buried its stinger into the lead lobotomite. The one with a .44 revolver danced sideways, firing rapidly at it and forcing it to release the other. The hunting wasp took several bullets to its abdomen before pinning the attacking lobotomite to the base of the pipe's support and stinging repeatedly until its prey stopped moving. Seizing the opportunity, the third lobotomite charged in with their cleaver, jumping on the insect's back and hacking wildly. Lurching up, the buzzing wings nearly dislodged the attacker, but they seized the cazador's antennae and held on grimly.

The lead lobotomite had recovered enough to sight on the predator and open fire, heedless of the one clinging to the insect. Repelled by the punishing rifle shots, the cazador clumsily took off towards the dome, hampered by the extra weight. It cut an erratic path through the air, crashing into the doors at the concrete base of the massive structure and spilling its unwanted passenger to the ground. The lobotomite rolled to their feet and met the cazador's attack as it skittered forward, one wing nearly severed from their tenacious chopping.

The off-balance insect threw itself forward, and the lobotomite wasn't strong enough to hold back the stinger that sank into its side. They scrabbled desperately against the metal doors and bumped against a contact patch that reacted to the pressure. The door slid open and the lobotomite fell backward into a small square room with bright white light and matte metal panelling. The cazador was too big to fit completely inside, but its barbed stinger kept it tethered to the unfortunate lobotomite. Kicking out, they hit another button on the inner wall, forcing the doors to slowly close on the cazador's thorax. The insect thrashed under the crushing pressure and the lobotomite screamed as they were thrown around. They brought the cleaver down on the base of the stinger again and again, biting into the tough carapace enough to sever it. The cazador shuddered and jerked back as the doors slammed shut.

The lobotomite slumped against the wall as the little room began to shake and move upward. Blood was oozing from the wound that was throbbing like a heartbeat. Detached from the pain, the lobotomite pulled the stinger from their side and let it drop, unheeded. They began to scratch around the door, looking for a way out. The rumbling stopped with a small ding and the doors slid open onto something that was decidedly not familiar wasteland.

Cool air wafted into the little room, making the lobotomite shiver as they cautiously shuffled forward. They squinted up at the artificial lighting, cowering slightly like a caged animal. The eerie stillness was disturbed only by their ragged breathing and the faint hum of electricity in the walls. Sticking close to the outer edge of the circular room, the lobotomite felt their way along until they reached a smooth stretch that resembled the doors they had come through. As though expecting a treat, they poked and prodded around the door, finally finding a switch to open it.

Warm desert air greeted them across a stunning panoramic of the crater that was their whole world. Dusk was rapidly giving way to night, and lights were springing up across the visible landscape: blue pillars around their familiar dome and menacing red far away in the zone that was Forbidden to all.

The breathtaking view was lost on the creature that limped towards the balcony railing. Something in the wind called to them, whispering freedom from orders.. or something else.

_What are you doing?_

Filthy bare feet balanced precariously on the rungs, ratty gown flapping in the air currents that scoured the devastated crater below. They wobbled, unsure, as though torn between fear of falling and the ancient human desire to fly.

_GET DOWN FROM THERE!_

With a gasp, they slipped backwards and landed hard on the metal balcony. They groaned and clutched their head in their hands as they slowly sat up, propped against the balcony wall. They winced and gently touched the puncture wound, but it wasn't bleeding anymore.

"What were you _doing_ up there?" they croaked, voice rough from disuse. "I've been trying to reach you for _weeks_. Now that the signal's been established, we should be okay. You should've climbed up here sooner."

They leaned back against the metal wall, letting sensations and memories flood through their body. The immediate past was hazy, but they remembered what happened before. They were a courier, the Courier. A title that was more their name now than anything else. They'd been traveling with Arcade and ED-E and found a crashed satellite. Arcade wanted nothing to do with it, but the courier knew valuable scrap when they saw it. It had been dark, so they'd set up camp to start stripping it in the morning. But the thing had come to life in the middle of the night and the courier was a habitually light sleeper. The vivid projection of a roving eye was more than unsettling, and they'd aimed to find the power source and switch it off, but when their hand passed through the beam of light, something in it _yanked_ and then- nothing.

The courier gingerly got to their feet, favoring their injured side. Hopefully, the extremely expensive monocyte breeder was doing its job and stitching their wound together, though the cazador's venom would guarantee a nasty scar. Now all they needed to do was get their bearings and figure out how the hell to get back to the Mojave. Big MT was legendary for its secrets, and it looked like the courier was one of them now. 


End file.
